


Happy Halloween, Sourwolf

by whovianmuse



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Halloween, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 16:25:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whovianmuse/pseuds/whovianmuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Motherfucking werewolves,” Stiles murmurs under his breath, once he’s certain that the little group of giggling, screaming, costume-clad Trick-Or-Treaters are out of earshot of his front porch. Normally, Stiles loves Halloween. Downright adores it. Best goddamn time of the year, in Stiles’ not-so-biased opinion. Give him freshly fallen leaves in hues of orange and gold, pumpkins carved into beloved cartoon caricatures, caramel spice lattes and scented candles, scary movie marathons, and mountains of candy any day. Because that shit is awesome. (On the other hand, give him brilliantly executed Mischief Night pranks, and a perfectly viable excuse to get all dolled up and dance his ass off at non-optional-costume parties, and Stiles is in Halloween heaven.) This Halloween, though? Kind of totally sucks.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Halloween, Sourwolf

**Author's Note:**

> This fluffy little fic was inspired by the [scene](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fsuwzCTLWh0) in 3x16 "Illuminated" where Derek wolfs out in front of those little Trick-Or-Treaters. I'm not gonna lie, I totally flailed like an idiot.

            “Motherfucking werewolves,” Stiles murmurs under his breath, once he’s certain that the little group of giggling, screaming, costume-clad Trick-Or-Treaters are out of earshot of his front porch. Normally, Stiles _loves_ Halloween. Downright _adores_ it. Best goddamn time of the year, in Stiles’ not-so-biased opinion. Give him freshly fallen leaves in hues of orange and gold, pumpkins carved into beloved cartoon caricatures, caramel spice lattes and scented candles, scary movie marathons, and mountains of candy any day. Because that shit is _awesome_. (On the other hand, give him brilliantly executed Mischief Night pranks, and a perfectly viable excuse to get all dolled up and dance his ass off at non-optional-costume parties, and Stiles is in _Halloween heaven_.)

            This Halloween, though? Kind of _totally sucks_.

            And like, okay…it’s not like Stiles _minds_ that his dad had stuck him and his new boyfriend with Trick-Or-Treat duty as a flimsy excuse to keep an eye on them for the night (like _that’ll_ prevent anything from happening), it’s just…he kind of wishes that it didn’t have to coincide with the same night as Scott and Isaac’s epic black-light party, which promises to be just as _insanely amazing_ as it had been last year when they’d held it at Derek’s loft (only, _without_ creepy-as-fuck shadow demons this time.)

            It’s fine, though. Really. Because Stiles also _loves_ kids, and Trick-Or-Treaters are _absolutely adorable_. They’re like his kryptonite, and Stiles just can’t seem to get enough of them. Every time they come bouncing up the steps of his front porch, little pumpkin-shaped baskets eagerly held out for candy, shouting _trick-or-treat_ through plastic masks and glittery face paint and faerie wings, Stiles can’t help but smile like a complete idiot, heart melting in his chest as he coos and compliments their costumes.

            So, no, he doesn’t _mind_ being the guy that sits on the porch all night and hands out candy to the neighborhood kids, not really. Because at least he’s not doing it alone. He’s got his brand-new, super hot boyfriend saddled up right beside him, a massive bowl of bite-sized snickers and peanut butter cups nestled in between his thighs. And it _should be_ ridiculously romantic, and adorable, and all of that other cutesy, relationshippy crap that Scott is always rambling on about, because honestly, it’s the perfect set-up. Except that it’s really, really _not_ , due in part to that tiny, infinitessimal, _inexcusable_ detail where his long-suffering werewolf boyfriend just so happens to be a _total dick_ to Trick-Or-Treaters.

            “Will you _please_ stop growling at them?” Stiles whines, shooting him a particularly murderous glare. “You’ve scared the ever-loving shit out of almost _every_ kid that’s come to the house without a parent. Do you _have_ to do the whole glowy-eyed fangs routine _every time_?”

            “Oh come on, it’s goddamned funny and you know it,” Derek laughs, his pouted, pink lips curving upward into a genuine smile, and _dammit fuck_ , Stiles has to admit that it’s kind of _amazing_ seeing Derek like this. Ever since the beginning of summer, when they’d first started dating, Stiles had all but made it his _mission in life_ to get Derek to smile as often as he possibly could…but damned if he was going to do so at the expensive of innocent preschoolers.

            Stiles aims a swift kick at Derek’s shins, cursing his stupid, supernatural reflexes as Derek quickly darts out of the way, offering Stiles a petulant, shit-eating grin in response. Laughing like an absolute idiot, Derek proceeds to playfully nudge him in the ribs, and, momentarily forgetting his own strength, accidentally knocks Stiles clean off the porch, which sends him crashing into a family of miniature pumpkins, accidentally smashing them underneath his weight. Derek buries his face in the palms of his hands to cover up an unmistakable smirk, shoulders shaking as he roars with silent laughter.

            “You fucking _asshole_ ,” Stiles quips, stomping back up the steps and fixing his juvenile bastard of a boyfriend with a feral scowl. Derek bites his lower lip to keep another cheeky smile from forming, and doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed.

            “Seriously, though, they’re good kids,” Stiles sighs, shoulders and thighs pressed flush against Derek’s as he settles back onto the topmost step of his front porch. “You could at least _try_ to be nice to them, instead of wolfing out and scaring the crap out of them. You’ve probably ruined the rest of their night.”

            “Don’t be so melodramatic, it was just a harmless prank,” Derek groans, wrapping a heavily-muscled, leather jacket-swathed arm around Stiles’ waist. “I thought you’d think it was hilarious. I mean, you practically _live_ for Mischief Night.”

            “Yeah, but there’s a _huge difference_ between pranking adults and pranking kids,” Stiles argues, giving him a significant look.

            “Not really. Kids can be just as stupid and susceptible as adults…even _more so_ , actually, because they won’t always question or attack what they’re seeing. They’ll just accept it for what it is. So I guess the only _real_ difference here is that it’s _way_ more fun scaring the shit out of kids,” Derek laughs, lacing his fingers with Stiles’ and giving his hand an affectionate squeeze.

            “Oh. Well, that’s… _wow_ , um…okay,” Stiles mumbles awkwardly, disentangling himself from his boyfriend’s arms and purposely leaning as far away from Derek as he can possibly manage in his current position, his hand falling dead in Derek’s palm.

            “Fuck. I fucked up, didn’t I? And now you’re upset,” Derek frowns, twisting his torso around until he’s facing Stiles, his expression wrought with concern.

            “What did I say? How do I fix it?” he asks, hesitantly reaching up and skimming the pad of his thumb across Stiles’ cheekbones.

            “Um, no, it’s not…it’s nothing, really, it’s just…I didn’t think you hated kids that much,” Stiles sighs, cutting across his own words with a brusque, bitter laugh and recoiling from Derek’s touch. Stiles gives a non-committal shrug as he turns his gaze away from Derek, plasters a synthetic smile on his face, and, adopting a painfully fake apathetic tone, adds, “It’s whatever, man…I mean, I don’t _care_ , like…it’s not a big deal at all. It’s not like I want—”

            “I don’t,” Derek amends, soft and quiet, but with enough conviction to stick a pin in Stiles’ spurious rambling. He pauses for a brief moment, collecting his thoughts and attempting to spin them into something tangible, into something that’ll actually make sense. He’s never really been good at the whole _feelings_ thing, but at least he’s trying.

            “You and I see Halloween differently, Stiles,” he says, tilting his body backward and resting all the weight on his forearms. “You like the autumn-themed decorative clichés and the lighthearted, practical joking side of it…while _I’m_ at the other, more frightening, paranormal, macabre side of the Halloween spectrum.”

            Stiles opens his mouth to protest, eyebrows knitted together in indignation, but Derek holds up his hand, and for once, the gesture alone is enough to shut Stiles up. Derek is almost too astonished to keep going. _Almost_.

            “Look…I don’t know about you, but when _I_ was a kid, I loved being scared shitless on Halloween. And I mean, maybe it’s just because I grew up in a family of _fucking werewolves_ and that sort of numbed the fear factor for me…but regardless of the reason, my brothers and sisters and I _lived_ for that shit. We _loved_ being scared,” Derek says, a small, melancholy smile spreading across his lips at the memory.

            “Fact in point, kids _love_ being scared, _especially_ on Halloween. That’s kind of the whole _point_ of the holiday, Stiles. And it’s only so long until they grow up and leave their open-minded imaginations behind them, and become bland, boring, ignorant adults…or _worse_ , blood-lusting hunters masquerading under the pretense of being martyrs,” Derek grumbles, his upper lip curling in disgust, before he quickly recomposes himself.

            “So,” he says, sighing as he offers Stiles an apologetic grimace. “Until then, I’m just trying to give them something that’ll make their Halloween that much fucking cooler…something that they can _remember_ …however short of a time that might be.”

            After a few moments of quiet contemplation, Stiles releases a long-winded sigh, absentmindedly fiddling with non-existent balls of lint on the hem of his hoodie, before turning toward Derek and fixing him with a quizzical look, head craned to the side in consideration.

            “You know, you’ve got a pretty fucked up way of showing when you like something,” he decides, shoving at one of Derek’s shoulders until he’s teetering off-balance.

            “Yeah, well…you’d know that better than anyone else,” Derek chuckles, shoving him right back and almost pushing him off the porch again. Stiles huffs out a laugh, launching onto Derek’s sprawled out form and all but wrestling him into submission. Derek makes a valiant attempt at sliding his hands underneath Stiles’ shirt and tickling him breathless, licking his lips and humming in admiration when he catches sight of the pale patch of skin that stretches across Stiles’ hipbones. Stiles takes advantage of Derek’s momentary distraction, pinning his wrists to the ground with an indelicate curl of his fingers, and, smiling triumphantly, hooks a leg over Derek’s thighs until he’s straddling his hips. Stiles gives an experimental thrust, grinding down against his lap and reveling in the strangled moan that escapes Derek’s lips, before swooping in for the kill and kissing him, _hard_.

            Derek struggles against Stiles’ restraints, breaking free just long enough to run his hands through Stiles’ hair, playfully tugging at the ruffled tendrils and eliciting truly sinful sounds from Stiles’ mouth in return. Stiles responds in kind, seeking out his revenge in the form of nipping, biting kisses, peppered along Derek’s neck and collarbones. It continues like this for a solid five minutes, their breathing growing louder and more erratic with each kiss, touches becoming hungrier and more desperate as they claw at each other’s skin, tug at the fabric of each other’s clothes, until the Sheriff scoffs audibly from the living room couch, and shouts, “I don’t need werewolf hearing to know what you two are doing out there. Keep it PG, boys.”

            Stiles is the first to break the kiss, letting his forehead drop down and come to rest against Derek’s chest, and then the both of them are bursting out laughing, bodies shaking against one another as they collapse into a fit of giggles. With a heavy, rueful sigh, Stiles climbs off of Derek’s lap and settles back into the spot right beside him, scooping the spilled out candy back into its bowl and placing it upright on a lower step. As their laughter subsides, the two of them fall into a comfortable silence, and Stiles leans in closer, slipping his hand into Derek’s palm and tracing spirals against his skin with the pad of his thumb.

            “So,” he says, trying his damnedest to make his tone sound as nonchalant and blasé as is humanly possible, even though he _knows_ there’s no point, knows that Derek can hear his heartbeat thrumming wildly in his chest. “You don’t hate kids, then?”

            “No,” Derek says quietly, pretending he hasn’t noticed the sudden shift. “Of course I don’t hate them. Kind of the opposite, actually.”

            “Do you,” Stiles attempts, cursing his traitorous voice for quivering on the second syllable. “I mean, not _now_ , obviously, because like, I’m only eighteen and _so_ not ready for that kind of responsibility. Oh, and, uh…I’m not saying it has to be with _me_ , I guess…even though I feel like we’re really good together and I’d kind of really love it if we could…um, _oh god_ , I’m rambling. This is horrifying. I’m totally getting _way_ ahead of myself here and probably making you really uncomfortable in the process. Shit, um…okay, since I’ve already dug myself an early grave, I’m just going to come right out and ask. Do you, um…want kids…someday?”

            Derek bites back a euphoric smile that threatens to spill over, and waits, letting Stiles sweat it out for just a little bit longer, like the asshole that he is, until Stiles starts fidgeting on the spot, all but vibrating with a nerve-wracking, all-consuming sense of dread that results from anticipatory rejection. In this case, Derek would like nothing more than to disappoint him on that front.

            “Yeah, I do,” he finally says, as casually as he can manage, though his heart is beating just as fast as Stiles’ is. “You know…if I found the right person.”

            Stiles whips his head up so fast that Derek can practically _hear_ the pulled muscles in his neck and shoulders straining, mouth rounded in a surprised _oh_. Derek glances up from underneath his lashes, locking his eyes onto Stiles’ and grounding him there, so that there’s no mistaking his conviction. With a lazy, half-smile, he watches Stiles’ eyes grow wide, almost comically so, and Derek can pinpoint the exact moment when Stiles loses his breath. He makes an aborted attempt at speech, but all that comes out of his mouth is a collection of muted squeaks and groans.

            Derek rolls his eyes and leans forward to press a soft, sweet kiss against Stiles’ still-parted lips, before pulling away in favor of addressing the two little Trick-Or-Treaters that had just traipsed their way up to the Stilinski’s front porch. Derek’s lips curve into a brilliant, charming smile worthy of a Disney prince, as he compliments their costumes and pours copious amounts of candy into their baskets. Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf scamper off into the night, giggling and shouting, and Derek can’t help but smile after them. He reaches down and laces his fingers with Stiles’, stroking gentle, calming circles in the palm of his hand, and delighting, for the moment, in the fact that he’d somehow managed to stun his overly loquacious boyfriend into complete, dumbstruck silence.


End file.
